


Semantics

by DancingMantis



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Love Triangles, Multi, Unrequited, in which Fenris and Varric have A Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 06:30:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4090537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingMantis/pseuds/DancingMantis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric preferred his relationships like he preferred his characters; complicated, vague, and maybe, just a little broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semantics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brekah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brekah/gifts).



Business in Kirkwall followed one rule above all others: chaos bred opportunity. Kirkwall had two bankable resources--unpredictability and ruthlessness--and the more wealthy nobles that got swept up by the market, the better.

And, not that he hadn't said it a hundred times, but Hawke was kind of upheaval incarnate.

Sure, their little coterie of misfits like to whinge whenever Hawke dragged them into the middle of some new shitstorm, but Varric would be a piss poor businessman if he didn't recognize a market force when he saw one. That the force in question was easy on the eyes, had almost no filter between brain and mouth, and was a damn good Wicked Grace player to boot didn't hurt.

Even six pints in--red-faced, laughing breathlessly at Isabella's jokes, and relying entirely on Aveline to keep herself upright on the bench--Hawke was fleecing them all blind. Her messy pile of winnings was twice Varric’s own, a fact he begrudgingly attributed to the icy blueness of her eyes whenever a stray thought of raising her crossed the table.

Donnic, whose neat stacks of coins stood like miniature towers holding back Hawke’s charm assault, was dealing out a fresh hand. Aveline watched him with a distant bemusement, her own solidity the only thing keeping Hawke from tipping completely sideways and landing across her husband’s lap.

Donnic’s efficient motions deposited small stacks of cards around the table, and Varric studied his hand. Merrill shifted on the arm of his chair to peer at his cards, narrowing her eyes.  “Is that a good hand?” she asked. Anders cleared his throat politely, and she started. “Sorry!” she said, and then repeated in a stage whisper, “Is that a good hand?”

Varric plucked a card at random and shifted it a few spaces. The spread was still out of order, but an added bluff never hurt. “Any hand can be a winner, Daisy, if it's got the right player,” he said in a gentle tone.

The wine-fed flush in her cheeks crept toward her hairline. “Oh, I see. Are you the right player, then?”

“With you as my good luck charm, I might just be.” He patted her knee fondly.

Fenris snorted without looking up from his cards. “You're certainly the most experienced cheater.”

“No; much as it pains me to admit it, that would be Rivaini,” he responded with a distracted gesture toward the pirate, who was describing something – complete with vivid gestures – to a helplessly giggling Champion. “You know, Fenris, I'm surprised at you. I'm just trying to guide Daisy through her first game, and you cast aspersions on my good name.”

“That was done long before any of us got here,” Donnic said, placing a pair of cards face-down on the table. “Two knaves.”

The corners of Sebastian’s mouth twitched. For someone who, by his own admission, had spent his youth gambling and whoring, the man was terrible with his tells. His eyes traced the cards. “You know, Merrill, any one of us could teach you. It might be easier to learn the rules before you focus on the subterfuge.” He slipped a pair of cards on top of Donnic’s, and collapsed his hand. “Two sirens.”

Fenris snorted. “Seheron will freeze before Merrill is capable of deceit, ” he droned. “Two knights.”

Anders huffed a begrudging laugh. “I pass.” He caught Merrill's pout and nervously thumbed his cards. “Honesty is something to be proud of,” he added in a soothing tone. “But let's face it; there will be cows flying over Minrathous before you could con someone.”

His last words were drowned out by a sudden cry of “ _Isabela, no!_ ” and the clatter of cups from the other end of the table. Isabela was dangling a bottle of Antivan brandy over Hawke’s head, and grinning lasciviously as Hawke pressed flush against hte pirate as she grabbed for it.

Fenris’ ears were pink as he locked his eyes on his cards. “A poor choice of analogy, actually.” His voice was steadier than the twitch at his throat.

Anders stared at him, barely noticing the commotion. “What, 'cows flying over Minrathous'?”

“You would be surprised.”

Varric, after allowing himself a moment to preserve the image of the rare accord in his memory (and to bask in Anders’ bewilderment), held his cards in front of Merrill. “What do you think, Daisy?” he asked indulgently.

His partner fidgeted on the arm of his chair and chewed gently on her lower lip. After a moment’s consideration, she let out a small “oh!” and plucked three cards from the hand to deposit face-down atop the stack. She smiled.

“Three Divines!” she said simply, and the assembled group groaned.

“Fold,” Donnic said, tossing his cards down. Sebastian deftly flicked his into a neat stack with his fingers and laughed, tapping them down in the center. Fenris and Anders tossed their cards back onto the table with simultaneous epithets, and Donnic raised his glass in sympathy. Aveline passed the pitcher down the table, and Sebastian ducked below it to gather up the discard stack. Almost as an afterthought, he shook off the top three cards--Merrill’s play--and flipped them face-up.

“Two serfs and a chanter?” he exclaimed. His blue eyes widened. “Merrill!”

Varric felt his chest swell until it threatened to rip even the ludicrously low collar of his shirt. Merrill stretched languidly across the table and swept the coins toward her, ignoring the disbelieving stares that fixed against her.

“Daisy, you just graduated with flying colors,” Varric declared with a beaming grin, and she returned his expression as she settled back at his side.

“Oh, good!” Her smile was easy, and suddenly, much more sober than he remembered. “And here I didn't think I'd gotten the hang of it.” With an innocence that Varric had just discovered was greatly exaggerated, she added,  “I had a good teacher.”

Had he been anyone else (or substantially drunker), Varric might have kissed her right then. Before he could begin cataloguing all of the ways in which that would have been a terrible idea, a crash broke through the din. Every head in the tavern swiveled toward Hawke, who was flat on her back against the floor, legs hooked over the bench, convulsing with uncontrollable laughter.  Isabela doubled over above her, steadying herself against the bench as she tried to speak between gasps of laughter.

"And so she said, 'no, messere, that's not an eggplant--he's just simple!’" she choked out, and Hawke answered with an inelegant shriek of merriment.

Varric ran a hand over his hair and smiled. Even Aveline was trying to hide her amusement behind her pint, but she couldn’t control the shaking of her shoulders. Fenris and Sebastian were already on their feet, trying to haul Hawke--who had gone limp with laughter and brandy--to a standing position. It took several gentle encouragements from Sebastian (and Tevene cursing that sounded suspiciously half-hearted from Fenris) to get her propped between the two of them. Varric stood, surprised by his own steadiness, and spread his hands wide.

“And I think that’s the evening,” he said. Isabela was hauling herself up against Aveline’s side, and the annoyed look that the redhead leveled at her was missing its usual bite. He smoothed a hand over his hair and threw the pirate a look of joking disappointment. “Really, Rivaini, the eggplant joke? You need to get new material.”

The pirate responded with an… expressive… gesture that turned Aveline’s face bright red, and made Merrill scrunch her nose in confusion. Varric watched in amusement as Donnic and Aveline hurried her out the door and into the streets of Lowtown, Aveline’s head shaking in irritation the entire way.

“-oonn, it’s such a looong walk back,” Hawke whined, her head lolling against Fenris’ shoulder.

“You will sleep better in your own bed,” the elf responded. Hawke made a sound of complaint, and slipped her arm free of Sebastian’s shoulder to wrap it around Fenris’ neck. Sebastian’s eyebrow raised, and Fenris turned a dark pink. “Hawke,” he said in a warning tone.

Varric waved a hand. “Don’t bother. She can stay here. I sleep in my chair most nights anyway, and I doubt Bianca will mind a guest.”

Fenris opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted as Hawke went limp and slid from his arms like an overcooked noodle. He caught her before her knees gave way, and at a nod from Varric, bent and scooped her up with a quiet Tevene curse.

When Sebastian had left to walk Merrill home, Varric turned and led the way up the stairs. Fenris followed, Hawke’s head nestled against his collarbone, her breathing low and even.

“Asleep already?” Varric asked as Fenris settled her on the bed. Fenris nodded. “For a Fereldan, she really can’t hold her liquor.”

“And for a dwarf, you’re startlingly loose with your coin,” Fenris responded, prying a sheet from under Hawke’s dead weight. He draped it over her as Varric stoked the fire in the hearth. “It seems none of us are quite what we’re expected.”

Varric nodded approvingly. A few logs brought the fire back to strength, and the room filled with a cozy, sleepy warmth. The dwarf dragged himself to his chair by the hearth, and sank into it with a contented sigh.  An easy silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the low hiss of steam escaping the kindling, and the occasional pop of bark.  

Fenris’ voice, when he spoke, was hesitant. "What... is Hawke, to you?"

_And there it is_ , Varric thought, biting back a sigh. He reluctantly forced one eye open and trained it on Fenris. The elf was perched on the edge of the bed, heels braced against the frame as if he intended to spring to his feet at any moment. Fenris had removed his gauntlets, and Varric caught the motion of lyrium-striped knuckles ghosting off the inky spray of Hawke’s hair.

Varric closed his eyes again without comment, and stretched his arms lazily over his head. “She's the best business partner I've ever had.” His shoulders popped, and he sighed contentedly. “Sure, the expedition to the Deep Roads was a shit show, but it's the most profitable shit show I've ever seen. I'm living the dwarven dream.”

Fenris’ brows lowered. "That… is not what I meant."

"My only real complaint is that damn mine on Sundermount,” Varric continued, ignoring the interruption. “You’d think that four zombie infestations would be enough incentive to sell, but she insists on keeping it.”

"Varric."

"I mean, the spiders we could write off as a work hazard, but the undead?"

" _Venhedis_ , dwarf, shut _up_." Fenris released a fist to knead the space between his brows--a small gesture, entirely Hawke’s. Varric smirked.

A moment of silence passed before Fenris took a slow breath and spoke again. "I do not ask for my own amusement, dwarf," he said, though the accusatory tone behind the epithet was completely gone. "Unlike you, I do not make a hobby out of concerning myself with others’ affairs." Another pause. Varric glanced up to see Fenris’ fingers flutter almost imperceptibly toward Hawke’s hair. The gesture vanished as quickly as it had come, and their eyes met. "I ask you again; what is Hawke to you?"

The fire crackled softly as Varric's brain compiled, edited, and discarded draft after draft of a response. He wrote off the first attempts, which were all reflexively flippant or deflective. Although he’d nurtured a faint hope that Fenris would, for whatever reason, never manage to address that particular elephant in the room, he liked and respected the elf deeply. The fact that Fenris felt safe enough to even broach the topic with him tied a knot in Varric’s chest that he didn’t want to linger on; the thought of meeting such rare candor with anything less than full honesty left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Unfortunately for both of them, a truly earnest answer was out of the question.

It wasn’t a question of want; Varric’s tongue itched to tell Fenris exactly how he felt. But he could not do it without running his fingers over the web that tied their group together, mapping the snarled threads and picking at the knots of memory. No matter how tangential the meeting, two people, once collided, could never fully disentangle, and the lacework of snags and loops that bound him to Hawke was both terrifying and precious.

For Fenris’ sake, he had to find something concrete, a point of comparison that would paint even the roughest outline of meaning. It was less than Varric wanted--and so, so much less than Fenris deserved--but he would have to make do.

"That woman is my family." He nodded toward the sleeping Hawke. “Or, at least, what I have left of one.”

Silence settled between the two, broken only by the crack of a log giving way to coals. Fenris blinked, and the line of his shoulders tensed. Varric could see Fenris’ thoughts flit across his face as he struggled to find a lodestar in the unexpected turn of the conversation. Eventually, Fenris said simply, "I do not remember my family."

Varric gave him an understanding look, and leaned his elbows on his knees. The posture was one of a storyteller, and taking up the familiar mantle eased just the smallest coil of tension from his shoulders. "I had one, when I was a kid. We read like a bad ten-copper novel: my mother, the emotionally absent dowager ruined by her dead husband's indiscretions; Bartrand, the arrogant heir determined to reclaim the family honor; and me, the second son and designated layabout."

Fenris did not look like he would interrupt; Varric was glad, because he didn't feel like going anywhere except where he was leading. "Of course, the reality was a lot less entertaining. Mother was a drunk who smoked too much, and Bartrand and I expressed our brotherly affection in the traditional Orzammar manner of beating the shit out of each other. Nobody expected anything out of me, so I was saddled with taking care of our mother. Bartrand, for his part, contributed to the family welfare by stomping around the house and demanding respect.” Varric snorted. "I'm sure he made some ancestor proud. Eight years old, barely able to tie his own boots, and he spent most of his time treating me like the hired help.”

Fenris remained silent as Varric paused to consider his next words. Varric noted the silence with gratitude. When he spoke, he began to twist his wrists, as if he could draw the words from his mouth like a fish from the harbor. "Growing up, I had this idea that family was…  a sledgehammer. It was huge, heavy, and the second it was mishandled, it could obliterate anything fragile. So I got good at managing people; Mother, Bartrand, eventually the Merchants’ Guild and every lowlife in Darktown, all in the name of protecting what little we had left. When Mother died, Bartrand had the family business, and I had Bartrand. Nothing more."

"Bartrand tried to kill you," Fenris said flatly. "As I recall, you wanted to repay him in kind."

Varric sighed and pressed his forehead against his fingers. "Yeah, I wanted to put a bolt between his eyes. Still do, if we’re being honest. But despite all of it, he is still my brother, and that... changes things."

Fenris's lip curled in an expression of mild disgust. "How does an accident of birth change anything?"

"Because once upon a time, I loved him," Varric said, with a force that surprised even him. Fenris’ spine straightened, and Varric had to steady himself before continuing. His throat suddenly felt very raw.

"When we were kids, he was the one person I looked up to.” Varric shrugged. “Sure, he was pointlessly cruel, tormented me at every opportunity, but I didn't know any better. I just assumed that was what brothers did in dwarven families. It wasn't like I had a lot of role models for healthy family dynamics.” He chuckled lowly. “I worshiped him, if you can believe it."

Fenris snorted. Varric leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "Family is the most dangerous thing in the world, Fenris. Being family means that at some point, however brief, however long ago, there was real, genuine love between you; and no matter what happens, that memory will be at the back of your mind, making you hesitate just an instant when your finger’s on the trigger.

“As for Hawke,” he continued, glancing up at her. “She’s… unique. I’ve never nudged her more than she wanted to be nudged. I’ve never lied to her--a few embellishments here or there, but never about anything serious,” he added, spreading his hands wide at Fenris’ raised eyebrow. “If you can believe it, I don’t think I’ve ever even wanted to twist Hawke's arm. She’s got better instincts than me, and coming from me, that’s saying something. Maybe I’m crazy, but I’m just content to tag along.”

Fenris paused, doubting eyes studying the lines of Varric’s face. “And the fact that you do not manipulate her--that makes her your family?”

Varric chuckled bitterly. He deserved that; if he were being totally honest, he deserved worse. “No, that just makes her unique. What makes her family is the fact that she protects us, like we’re her own, even when we’re at our worst.” Fenris sat in obliging silence while Varric collected his thoughts.

“Do you know how many times she could have pulled that trigger, Fenris?” The elf remained silent. “How many times she’s hesitated?”

When Fenris spoke again, his voice was slow, and uncertain. “Perhaps she has a strong conscience.”

Varric waved his hand dismissively. “Have you ever seen her stop to think about slicing open a raider? Hawke doesn’t do hesitation. Her instincts tell her who lives and who dies, and she follows it to the letter. We--all of us--are the exceptions that prove the rule.” He glanced up at Fenris, grasping at the cool collectedness that he felt slipping from his voice. “She sees us at our worst--moments when, by all measurements, we deserve no better than the mercs. If she judged us like she judged them, we’d be dead before we hit the floor. But…” He shifted his eyes to the fireplace, and shrugged.

“She hesitates,” Fenris finished lowly.

Varric’s voice dropped to a quiet rumble. “I don’t know what happy memory flashes through her mind, but whatever it is, I’m sure as hell glad she has it.”

“And?” Fenris asked hesitantly.

“And if my role and hers were reversed, I would do the same for her.”

The words welled up from deep in his chest, spilling out before he could dam them in safety. The silence that hung on the room echoed with the second, more critical and infinitely more painful conversation that they skirted, a no man’s land into which neither of them could set foot without shattering everything Hawke had built around them. Its existence was not a threat, but a promise of their complete undoing. That way lay death, for themselves and every stone of the life they had built with Hawke at its foundation.

He liked Fenris, more, he knew, than the elf realized, and he owed him something more substantial than meaningless idiom. Hawke was more a part of Varric than any other person had ever been - except, perhaps, Bianca, in another life. He could no more describe her objectively than he could rip out his own lungs to take a look at them; bits of him would come with her, whether he wanted it or not.  

It was perhaps a little sad, but Varric preferred his relationships like he preferred his characters; complicated, vague, and maybe, just a little broken.

In the vast lexicon that the trade tongue offered to storytellers, Varric had never found more than a fistful of words that adequately echoed the relationships between two people.  “Love” was overused, trite, and encompassed such a wide range of attachment that it barely meant anything at all. It was the crutch of a lazy narrator; “they loved each other” was nothing more than a hand-wave over everything that was really important: desire, trust, history, earnestness so profound that it bordered on confessional. Proclaiming “love” was just a cheap shortcut to call up all, or some, or maybe even none of the potential component parts, in some combination, shuffled and reconstituted into an infinite range of variable results, each different than the last.

Varric was nothing if not a diligent author, and so he showed, rather than told. He wrote stories in which Hawke was the thinly-disguised heroine, adventure stories with twists and intrigues that he knew delighted her. He helped track her finances because she’d never had a head for numbers. He kept an open tab at the Hanged Man that he quietly placed all her drinks on when she was running short of coin, or celebrating some ridiculous victory, or drinking with the frightening intensity of someone trying to forget. He brought treats for her hound, flattered her mother when he visited (Maker rest her tragic soul), and had paid far above market price to keep the Carta off Gamlen’s doorstep.

He stayed out of her personal affairs except when invited, brought her his own problems only when it became unavoidable, and thanked the Maker daily for her inexplicable hesitation when he did, by all accounts, deserve a swift knife in the chest.

If that didn't speak clearly enough, then no volume of words would.

The silence stretched on, long and deep, broken only by the pop of a log in the fireplace. The glow had banked to embers, and a quiet sigh of cracking wood sounded as the last log in the hearth split as Varric spoke again.

“If you hurt her again, Fenris,” he said, closing his eyes as the fire died, “it will be a mistake.”


End file.
